Chapter 1: Extinction Royalty

Humans used to rule the planet, but now we’re just a footnote—critically endangered, tagged and tracked like rare animals.

Academic Slacker: "Yo, this is insane! All-you-can-eat buffets, your own bed, hot showers, steak, lobster, cupcakes—what else could you want?"

Class President: "Central air, waterbeds, indoor pool—never have to worry about the temp, always a perfect seventy-eight."

Class Queen Bee: "Seriously, why do they keep staring? Are we, like, the hottest thing on the planet or what?"

But I was the only one who felt a shiver crawl down my spine, my mouth dry, tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. My heart hammered in my chest, a warning siren no one else seemed to hear.

Guys—

You’re missing the point: as an endangered species, we’re not just pampered and adored. We’re expected to breed. Again and again. Like prize animals at a luxury zoo.

I was the last one to get captured.

We were animal science majors, heading out past Flagstaff for a bear-watching field trip. Typical college stuff: van rides, too many snacks, playlist arguments, sunscreen forgotten in someone’s bag. But then the van flipped. When we woke up, the world had gone full apocalypse.

My leg was a mess, and I got separated from everyone while looking for food.

Half-dragging myself up a rocky slope, I realized the thing that had been tailing me—a towering insectoid in heavy gloves—was back. Its shell glinted like chrome under the sun, every movement sharp and deliberate.

I tried to run, panic exploding in my veins, and hurled a rock at it. The insectoid just blinked, those huge compound eyes fixed on me, letting out a low, melodic chirp—almost like it was saying, "Chill, I’m not here to hurt you."

It didn’t seem aggressive. Not exactly comforting, but I was barely standing. My foot throbbed, blood soaking through my sock. The insectoid let out a soft call. This time, I turned.

It set a strange, gleaming fruit on the ground in front of me.

I stared at it, swallowing hard. Before I could decide if I’d eat it, I felt a sharp prick in my foot—a tiny needle, sharp as a shot at the doctor’s office, spreading numbness through my whole body.

They’d dosed me with something. When I woke up, everything was different.

Two more insectoids stood guard by the door, opening the gate as they moved me along. The sunlight bounced off sleek, silver-white buildings—nothing like home.

Holographic screens spun everywhere, flooding the air with alien symbols I couldn’t even begin to understand.

Transparent rooms lined the corridor. Inside, people—Black, white, every kind—cowered in corners, eyes hollow, watching us pass.

But their faces looked wrong—eyes set too wide, hair thin and patchy, features not quite lining up. It was like staring into a funhouse mirror twisted by centuries of disaster.

When they lifted me out of the glass transport box, the place exploded with activity. Insectoids swarmed in, chirping and buzzing with excitement and anxiety, their multifaceted eyes tracking my every move. One, obviously the boss, stretched out a tentacle. Still paralyzed, I could only watch as its hand settled on my head, stroking gently.

The leader’s chirping sounded almost like laughter, and its pupils widened in those endless eyes.

If I read it right, it was thrilled—giddy, even.

Turns out, these insectoids were obsessed with humans—especially our smooth skin and soft hair. Like finding a golden retriever in a shelter, I guess.